Writing Samples
The writing samples below are my own original work and are protected under copyright. All rights reserved. I don’t share client work or use AI to generate content.
Fiction
April 1885
Sylvia Cooper winced as a rosebush thorn pricked her finger. It wasn’t every day one received a letter stating that Governor Parker and his wife would be paying a visit. Fresh flowers on the table seemed the least she could do, after all they had done for her family.
A gentle rain fell as the morning sun appeared on the horizon, glistening off the wet grass like diamonds. The scent of damp earth mingled with the sweetness of roses, drifting through the cool spring air. The screen door at the back of the farmhouse creaked open and closed with a thud.
“Sylvia? Where are you, Sylvia?”
“I’m picking flowers, Carolyn. Go back inside. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“I need you, Sylvia. The red-haired man is here again. I’m coming to find you.”
Sylvia sighed. The delusions were getting worse.
“There is no red-haired man, Carolyn. Stay right where you are. I’ll come to you.”
A heaviness that even the Governor’s visit couldn’t lift hung over her like a dark cloud. Sylvia tucked the flowers into her apron and made her way toward the porch. Carolyn stood near the door, arms folded, eyes wide with alarm. Her dark hair was tangled, she was thin and pale, and she still hadn’t changed out of her bedclothes. She reminded Sylvia of a frightened kitten she’d once coaxed out from under the porch.
The wooden steps groaned as Sylvia stepped up, slipped an arm around her sister, and led her gently inside. The house smelled of soap and wood smoke from the stove. Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains in the parlor, glinting off the worn brass of the grandfather clock in the corner.
Carolyn followed her into the kitchen and watched as Sylvia set the roses in a vase and placed them in the center of the table.
“He must have left,” she murmured, sinking into a chair.
Sylvia ladled steaming cornmeal mush from a pot on the stove, set a bowl before her sister, and handed her a spoon.
“He was never here,” she said softly. “Now eat your breakfast, then we’ll get you cleaned up. The Governor and his wife will be here this afternoon.”
While Carolyn ate, Sylvia went into her room and pulled a small wooden box from beneath the bed. Inside were years of letters and photographs, fragments of lives and moments long past. Governor Parker might be interested in reading what Samuel had written in his final letter.
As she searched, one particular photograph caught her eye. She lifted it out of the box with trembling hands and stared at the image of a smiling young woman from ten years earlier. Dark curls peeked out from beneath a velvet hat adorned with flowers. Her cheeks were full and rosy, her eyes bright with life. She wore a light-colored day dress trimmed with lace, fitted at the waist, with small pearl buttons running down the bodice.
Carolyn.
Sylvia traced the image with her fingertip, tears welling in her eyes. It was taken before that day. The day that changed everything.
Memoir Sample 1
The following is a memoir sample written in the voice of a fictional client. The purpose is to demonstrate my writing skills and is not reflective of any real client stories.
In August 1985, when I was seven years old, my mother and I took a trip to my grandparent’s house in Dallas. As we drove down I-35 in her green Toyota Celica, I sensed something different about this visit. Mom didn’t say much, just tapped her fingers against the steering wheel while Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the U.S.A. played on the radio.
The air was hot and heavy because the air conditioner hadn’t worked all summer. I grabbed the handle to roll the window down.
“Roll that back up, Julia.”
“But it’s hot.”
“You’ll be fine. We’ll be there soon. I don’t want the wind to mess up my hair.”
When we got to the house, Grandma had cookies cooling on the kitchen counter. She hugged me, handed me two, and told me to go sit with Grandpa, who was in his recliner watching an old western on TV.
“Hi, Peanut,” he said when I walked in.
I plopped down on the couch beside him, pretending to watch. Voices rose in the kitchen, Grandma saying something about responsibility, Mom saying something about chasing her dreams. Then I heard the bathroom door close, followed by the hiss of hairspray.
A moment later she came out, kissed me on the head, and said, “Be a good girl, okay?” Then she was gone.
I watched from the window as the green Toyota disappeared down the road. I wouldn’t see her again for ten years.
It took a while for the truth to sink in. My grandparents became my anchor in a world that had been unsteady since I was born. They enrolled me in school, came to every recital and every game, and taught me right from wrong. I never once heard them speak harshly of my mother. When I said, “I hate her,” Grandma looked at me with pain in her eyes and whispered, “No, Julia. You must never say such things.”
Memoir Sample 2
The following is a personal reflection from my own life (don’t judge me, it was thirty years ago)
Song of Solomon Apartments
I left home at the age of nineteen. I didn’t go far, just to a Christian college 100 miles away. My dream at the time was to become a Christian recording artist, but after taking voice lessons, I realized I only liked to sing for fun.
There’s a reality that’s prevalent in Christian colleges. Take a campus full of young men and women who want to honor God by living out biblical values, including in the area of their love lives, and you’ll find a lot of people who want to get married. When I was there, you were either engaged, married, or wanted to be. (With some exceptions, of course. I was not an exception.)
Single student housing was on one side of the campus, and married housing was on the other. If one of the girls got married while still in school, she would leave the single housing area where we were and cross over to the other side.
They were just apartment complexes, but to a young, hopeful single it seemed like a dream. They got to have TVs and computers with internet access. They didn’t have curfew, RAs, or room inspections. They didn’t get written up if someone accidentally left her keys in the door one night (ahem).
They got to live in bliss with their one special person forever. It was like we were junior grown-ups, and they were actual grown-ups.
I walked by those Song of Solomon apartments (I made up that name) every day on my way to class. During my time there, I never crossed the gate into that wonderland where it was always seventy-three degrees, mothers pushed strollers along streets of gold, and birds sang lullabies over them.
A Heart For Turkey
I met a guy named Jeff. We would hang out sometimes, but I wasn’t sure what he thought of me. We left for summer break, and I didn’t see him for three months.
The first time I saw him, after returning to school, he was standing in the hallway talking to people who were surrounding him. I thought he looked like a rock star and fully expected him to start signing autographs at any moment.
Instead of going up and saying hi, I chickened out and went home. I had no idea how he felt about me.
A short time later, my friend Jennifer called. “Come over right away.”
When I got there, she was smiling from ear to ear.
“What’s going on? Did you get engaged?”
“Not yet. We’re waiting for an opening at Song of Solomon apart…this isn’t about me! I ran into Jeff, and he asked about you. He’s been looking for you! I gave him your phone number.”
He called an hour later and asked me out. We went to dinner and a movie. He told me about his plans to become a missionary to Turkey. He had a heart for Turkey. The way it worked was that whatever you had a heart for was your calling. Then you find someone who has a heart (calling) that lines up with yours. I didn’t really know how the missionary-in-Turkey calling lined up with the recording-artist calling, but God works in mysterious ways. I could learn to love Turkey. Turkey was awesome. Turkey was my favorite food.
Thanksgiving Disaster
Months went by, and things continued moving along. There were red flags that I didn’t notice until it was much too late.
I invited him to come home with me for Thanksgiving. Then, the day before, we got into a big fight over something I don’t remember. In retaliation, he took it upon himself to invite a girl named Sasha from Ukraine to my family’s home for Thanksgiving, without asking first.
Then he insisted on bringing his car and driving an extra three hours to San Antonio to visit his Uncle Albert after dinner.
Dinner went fine, despite the tension between me and Jeff.
I had barely finished my sweet potatoes when Jeff decided he was ready to go to San Antonio. I was just going to let him go by himself until Sasha jumped in the front seat and announced in broken English that she would ride with him.
So I came too, even though I now had to ride in the backseat. I stared out the back window with my arms crossed while Sasha sat up front and laughed at all Jeff’s bad jokes.
We got to Uncle Albert’s and stayed for an entire hour, just long enough to have chips and dip and listen to Uncle Albert tell Jeff’s Mom over the phone that Jeff was there with his two girlfriends.
Right after we got back to campus, we broke up.
Graduation, Spider Bites, and the Six-Inch Rule
A few weeks later, I got bitten by a spider. I didn’t realize it was anything serious until the night before graduation, when I had to leave the banquet early to go to the emergency room.
The waiting time was too long, so I went home without being treated because I didn’t want to take the chance of missing graduation (I ended up going back after graduation the next day).
When I went up on stage to get my diploma, I was hiding my swollen arm under my gown, and I was in terrible pain. But I did my best to smile through it.
The Dean of Students shook my hand and whispered, “How’s your arm?”
I just nodded and smiled and said I was fine. What else was I supposed to say?
“Well, not too good, Sir. The ER was crowded even though the lady behind the desk was bored, so I left. I gave up medical treatment to be here. Oh, and my heart’s been broken by a fellow student I kissed off campus. I know that violates the six-inch rule, but if it helps, I’m really sorry I even met him. So, if y’all could just stop and pray for me real quick…”
Fruit-of-the-Month Club
My mom took pictures of me all day long. Every time she held that camera up again, I smiled as wide as I could. But I overdid it, because in all the pictures I look delirious, like I just won the lottery.
At the reception, we ran into Jeff, and my Mom got momentary amnesia and forgot all about her daughter bawling into the phone a few weeks earlier because she insisted on taking pictures of me and Jeff together.
He put his arm around me and smiled. Instead of looking like I won the lottery, I looked like someone who, upon thinking they won the lottery, quit their job, moved to Hawaii, bought a beach house, and then found out what they really won was a subscription to the fruit-of-the-month club.
After graduation, I moved into alumni housing. My arm, by this time, was healing. I tried to forget about Jeff, but I played the Titanic soundtrack every night as I went to sleep.
My heart clearly wasn’t going on.
I’d lie there wondering what I could have done differently. Should I have acted like it didn’t bother me that he basically ruined Thanksgiving? Should I have laughed at all his stupid jokes like Sasha did? Should I have gotten aggressive and demanded she move to the back so that I, his girlfriend, could sit up front? I had really been hoping he would do that.
Late at night, I listened to Delilah on the radio.
I wondered if there was a song for a girl getting over a jerk boyfriend who invited another girl to her home for Thanksgiving, just to make her jealous, then got mad that she didn’t stick her head in the front seat and yell, “Tell us another one, Jeff!”.
Nah, Delilah would have thought I was a prank caller and hung up before I even got to “Uncle Albert.”
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